■ ^7 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 






014 359 671 # 



TX 393 
.G7 
Copy 1 



OAT MEAL 



THE 



War Winner 




I 



BY 

J. R. Grieve, M. D. 

Acting Assistant Surgeon 
U. S. Army, 1865 

Copyright Applied for. Price Ten Gents. 



{-i:i> 26 i^jlB 



^7 "OATMEAL" 



BEING GLIMPSES AN REMINISENCES OF SCOTLAND 

AND ITS PEOPLE. 

By J. R. Grieve, M.D. 

INTRODUCTION. 

At the present time when every one is being urg-ed to 
bend every energy toward the conservation of food sup- 
phes, it is surprising to me that so httle has been written 
in behalf of the extraordinary value of oatmeal as a diet 
on which people can live and continue more healthy than 
on any other cereal in the world. 

I wish to present facts, not theories. I wish to tell of 
what I know personally on this subject. I have not con- 
sulted any of the laboratories of research or taken for 
granted any data from the many-published statistics of in- 
dividual food sufficiency for sustaining life, but I have only 
taken facts and invite my readers to form their own con- 
clusions. 

My father was a successful farmer in Perthshire, Scot- 
land, and employed quite a number of ploughmen. His men 
were always big strapping fellows, weighing on an average 
from one hundred and fifty to one hundred and seventy 
pouds and as strong as oxen. None of those men ever saw 
a two-bushel sack of grain because we never' had such sacks. 
What they were acquainted with and were accustomed to 
handle were four-bushel sacks of wheat, weighing sixty- 
four pounds per bushel, barley weighing fifty-six pounds 
per bushel. These sacks they would carry on their back 
and load on their carts and, after being hauled to the city, 
would again shoulder them and carry them up two and 
sometimes three flights of stairs in the warehouses. There 
were fev*^ elevators in those days. 

Now what had those men for breakfast that morning. 
Certainly not beefsteak, ham and eggs, toast, or biscuits. 
No, they had a large bowlful of bcrose. Each man takes his 
large wooden bowl and puts into it three or four handfuls of 
oatmeal, a big pinch of salt, then pours boiling water on it, 
stirs it with the handle of his spoon, adds sweet milk, and 
eats his breakfast. When the noon hour comes he goes 
through the same process; and after the work is finished 
for the day he generally has a bowl of oatmeal parridge. 

The whole time occupied is probably ten minutes. Then 
after smoking a pipe for ten minute more he is ready for 
a day of strenuous work. Each man possesses a half-gal- 
lon tin bucket, and that is filled at the dairy every morning 
before breakfast with sweet milk,' and that lasts him for 
the day. No labor is too hard for those men. They can 
stand any strain put before them and never complain of 
being hungry. I never heard the least complaint of indi- 
geston, and the doctor would have starved to death if he 
had depended on these ploughmen for patients. The al- 
lowance of meal is seventy pounds every four weeks, and 
that is all you require to give them. Often these men don't 
see a piece of meat in months and very seldom do they eat 



wheat bread. Scotland has been called the "Land 'o Cakes" 
from the fact that an excellent cake can be made of oatmeal. 
The cakes are rolled thin and toasted befoi-e an open fire 
until they are quite hard. I have eaten oatmeal cakes in 
Virginia that were baked in Scotland, two or three months 
previously and after being heated through they were as 
crisp as if newly baked. 

I grew up amid these surroundings and am familiar with 
every detail. I had my porridge twice a day all through 
my young life, and the development in my individual case 
was quite satisfactory. I often tell people that I was 
brought up on oatmeal and the New Testament, which is 
true; and I can truthfully testify to the excellency of the 
combination. Another important fact, especially at the 
present time, is that we never though of adding sugar to 
our oatmeal. Those ploughmen would have as soon thought 
of sprinkling epsom salts on their porridge as sugar. To 
this day nothing gives me such satisfaction at breakfast as 
a bowl of oatmeal and milk. To eat a bountiful supply of 
oatmeal and suppliment it with meat, eggs, etc., is a great 
mistake. It is too nurtitious and impedes digestion. In 
those days such terms as calorics protein, carbohydrates 
w^ere never used and need never be used when speaking of 
oatmeal. I ask one question : If oatmeal does tnot contain all 
the elements of a perfect food, how did those ploughmen 
stand up to their hard work and seldom complain of hun- 
ger and more seldom need the services of the doctor? It 
regulates the intestinal canal like clock work. 

Sweet milk is absolutely necessary to complete the per- 
fect diet. Any substitute, whether molasses, butter, or 
sugar, does harm. There should be a generous supply of 
salt in making porridge and that does away with the crav- 
ing for sugar. I often meet people, doctors included, who 
declare that porridge ought to be cooked for six or eight 
hours. My only answer to that falacy is to point to my 
brosemen. When Oats go to the mill they are put into a 
kiln and subjected to considerable heat until the hull cracks 
and they are three-fourths cooked, then they are sifted and 
ground either coarse or fine as you wish. We had no 
flaked oats in those days, and I cannot say whether the 
smashing flat process is an injury or betterment to the 
cereal; but I prefer the coarse-ground oats, as that was 
what the men I refer to were fed. I am only stating facts, 
as I have experienced them, and I stick to my original state- 
ment that oatmeal used as the Scotish ploughmen use it is 
satisfactory in every particular as to giving nourishment 
and preserving health. 

What a saving of time it makes for the housekeeker — 
just about half an hour for breakfast and supper, few 
dishes to wash, and no greasy plates to encounter. For 
dinner you may omit the oats and take what you prefer. 

"In American hotels and boarding houses, also in private 
homes, oatmeal is served in small quantities in small 
saucers as a side dish. It ought to be the main and only 
dish both morning and evening. 

Oatmeal has a wonderfully beneficial efl"ect on the mor- 
ality of men. You might spend an evening, as I have 

^ ©CI.A494058 



many times done, in those men's quarters, and you would 
not hear a profane word or an objectionable sentence from 
the lips of any one of them. Those men nearly all go to 
Church on Sunday as regularly as they go to work on Mon- 
day. They are intelligent as a rule and demonstrate by 
their conversation that their diet has nourished the gray 
matter as well as their muscles. 

If oatmeal acted so beneficial fifty years ago on the in- 
habitants of Scotland, it surely is a good argument that it 
will perform its duty on Americans just as well to-day. 

Personally it would be immaterial to me if the wheat 
and sugar crops failed entirely, so long as I could have the 
dear old cereal that nourished me to manhood and the good 
will of a fine Jersey. 

While oatmeal sustains the body and keeps it in fine 
condition, it certainly must exercise a powerful influence 
upon the brain. Sir Walter Scott was an oatmeal man. In 
intellect he was "one of them." Sir David Brewster, the 
Royal Astranomer, who could scan with more than eagle's 
eye the mighty creations in the bosom of space, was made 
mostly of oatmeal. Hugh Miller, that huge geological ham- 
mer, inscribed with Hebrew characters, was an oatmeal man. 
So was "Bobby" Burns, and the man does not live who can 
say that "Bobby" had no brains. 

No argument can be brought to bear against oatmeal. 
If you believe what I say is true, why not put it to the 
test. I know it is a great problem to change the dietitic 
habits of a community — and much more so to change the 
habits of a nation. There are Scotchmen scattered every- 
where, and no doubt they and their wives would supervise 
Oatmeal Clubs to teach the people how to make porridge 
properly and to overcome any prejudice they might have 
as to its use. No doubt it is an acquired taste, but when 
once learned it is for "keeps." 

When I first came to America I did not eat any tomatoes 
for years. I could not endure the taste, but gradually I 
took to them, and now I dearly enjoy them. 

Many of my friends, through solicita,tion and my example, 
have adopted the oatmeal habit, and all of them are de- 
lighted with the result and intend to make it permanent. 

Just imagine what conversation of food it would be if a 
vast multitude enlisted under the oatmeal banner. Meat- 
less, wheatless, and surgarless days at least six days in the 
week for breakfast and supper. For dinner and on Sun- 
days I should allow every one who wished to indulge in the 
fruit of the hen and the ham of the hog, or whatever deli- 
cacy might suit their individual taste. 

The Duke of Wellington knew his business when he held 
in reserve the famous Scot's Grey cavalry at the battle of 
Waterloo, until the psycological moment arrived when the 
French lines began to waver, then ordered the charge 
which sent them thundering on striking the enemy like an 
avalanch and thereby winning the battle. So in a modest 
way I think the psycological moment has arrived when the 
people of America will listen to what I say and began to 
cultivate the taste for oatmeal and use it liberally, thereby 

3 



conserving food for the great emergency now and which 
will be more acute by and by. 

It was oatmeal personified in the Kilted highlanders that 
scaled the heights of Alma and later stormed the Russian 
stronghold, Sebastopol. Oatmeal rode in the light brigade 
at Baladava, "charging an army while all the world wonder." 
Oatmeal sang Annie Laurie thirty thousand strong in th-e 
Crimean trenches in front of Sebastopol on the eve of the 
grand assault. 

"They lay along the batten-'s side 

Below the smoking cannon, 
Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde 

And from the banks of Shannon. 

They sang of love and not of fame ; 

Forgot was Britain's glor}-, 
Each heart recalled a different name 

But all sang "Annie Laurie." 

Oatmeal has com.e out conqueror in many battles in many 
lands, and who can doubt that it will eventually crush to 
earth the hated Hohenzolerns and Hapsburgs, to say noth- 
ing of the unspeakable Turk. 

MENU. 
Breakfast. 

Bowl of oatmeal porridge. 

Plentv of sweet milk. 

"That's All. 

Dinner. 

Please j'ourself. That is none of my business. 

Supper. 

Bowl of oatmeal porridge. 

Plenty of sweet milk. 

That's All. 

After supper you can go to bed and sleep like a top, and 
in the morning you will get up feeling tip top. J. R. G. 

Tennessee Industrial School, Nashville, Tenn. 

Jauary, 1918. 

When Dr. Samuel Johnson, the lexicographer, vented his 
unaccountable spleen against the Scotch people by defining 
"oatmeal" as "food for English horses and Scottish men," 
he exposed himself to the witty retort. "And where will 
you find finer horses or better men." Thomas Carlyle tells 
us that on one occasion, during a visit he paid to Lord Ash- 
burton, at the Grange, he caught sight of Macauley's face 
in unwonted repose, as he was turning over the pages of 
a book. "I noticed" said he, "the homely Norse features, 
that you find everywhere in the Western Isles, and I thought 
to myself; well, any one can see that you are an honest 
good sort of a fellow, made out of oatmeal." 

To what extent the characteristic peculiarities of nations 
are due to diet is a question on which we will not enter. We 
believe, however, that the matter of food has much to do 
in determining the character and destiny of a people; and 
oatmeal being the principal food of Scotland it would seem 
to be certain that the people who have been made out of 
it, have been in themselves very remarkable: and have ex- 
ercised an influence upon the whole civilized world that is 
unique and singularly potential. 

In introducing our subject, it would seem to be proper to 

4 



say a few words about the "land o' cakes" — that is, oat 
cakes. First, there is no word in any languag^e that has in 
it such perfect music, or around which chng dearer and 
sweeter associations than the word "Caledonia," 

Oh Caledonia stern and wild, 
Meet nurse for a poetic child." 

Under the si3ell of that name imagination takes wing, and 
we are back in the springtime of youth. We hear the lark 
singing in the clear air. We smell the fragrance of the 
heather. We hear the plow-boy's whistle, and the mild- 
maid's song, — some lively ditty to relieve the tedium of 
labor, or it may be an old heroic melody, that glimpses 
some grand page of Scottish story. We hear again the 
murmur of voices that for long years have sunk into si- 
lence. Faces rise before us that had begun to fade from 
our recollection scenes in which we formed a part, pass as 
a panorama, and remain for ever on the deathless page of 
memory. 

To the student of history, Scotland is not a foreign coun- 
try. The genius of its sons has made it familiar and home 
like to every lover of pure hterature, true patriotism and 
heroic virtue. In undertaking to speak of it, we are em- 
barassed. with our riches. 

We are not so perplexed about what we shall say, as how 
to say it within reasonable limits. These however are but 
glimpses and glances of Scotland and its people, and may 
serve to inspire some to seek a fuller and clearer vision, and 
larger grasp of a theme that can never grow old while men 
struggle to conquer hostile forces, or strive to win a place 
in the van of civilization. 

Scotland is the land of old romance where ever the eye 
turns some scene of classic and storied interest presents it- 
self. There, near Stirling stands that grand modern monu- 
ment to William Wallace — the hero of Scotland, — the wield- 
er of "Freedom's sword." A mile distant is the scene of 
the battle of Bannockburn where Robert Bruce achieved 
the deliverance of the Scottish people from the despotism 
of Edward 1st, and estabhshed their independence as a na- 
tion. 

It is the land where mountain torrents rave down the 
glens, or tumble from the steep torn into foam ; or that mur- 
mur softly as they steal along on the level plain under the 
hazel and the broom, a land whose ruggid coast lines are 
indented by immense fissures through which the ocean 
pours its tidal waves to expand into lakes in the interior — 
lakes which mirror the giant forms of the mountains, and 
higher up where lonely tarns sleep, and the nests of the 
sea gull and the eagle remain undisturbed in their solitude. 
It is a land where magic cloud scenes unfold their sudden 
splendors in fiery crimson and gold, or whose skies darken 
in fierce tempests that blot out mountain and plain in a mo- 
ment in the whirling gusts and eddies of wind and rain. 
A land, in brief, which has many vicissitudes of climate, 
from the wild winter storms to the soft and gentle touches 
of spring — the fervid heats of summer melting into the 
glowing radiance of autumn sunsets unrivalled for beauty 

5 



of coloring-. One stroke of Scott's magic pen pictures it 

"The Western waves of ebbing day. 

Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire 

Was bathed in floods of living fire." 

The capital city of Scotland is Edinburgh. It is a city of 
marvelous contrasts in the style of its architecture. It is 
divided into the old and the new towns. But the first of 
these arrests the attention, chiefly from the quaint and 
curious combinations in structure which its buildings pres- 
ent. They are built of stone, and many of them rise ten 
and twelve stories, their -entrances carved with figures gro- 
tesque and repulsive — griffins, dragons, monsters — half 
beast and. half man, with hideous scowls and leers glare and 
grin upon you as if daring you to enter. On one of the 
lower streets is the "Grass Market" which was the princi- 
pal place for public evecutions, and where so many of the 
martyrs of the Scottish covenant sealed their testimony to 
the truth of God's word with their blood. This spot recalls 
many of the dark deeds of an age which placed an interdict 
upon the human mind, attempted to rule conscience by the 
strong arm of law, and crush human liberty under the iron 
heel of remorseless and ferocious oppression. Here is Holy 
rood palace, an ancient pile with its quadrangles, courts, 
tun-ets, winding stone stairs, and long resounding corridors. 
Here is the secret stair upon which, on that memorable night 
in Scottish history, crept Ruthren, Douglass, and their co- 
conspirators, who bursting into the Queen's private apart- 
ment, seized Rizzio, the Italian singer, and in spite of his 
cries for mercy, and the intercession of his royal mistress, 
dragged him out upon the landing, and stabbed him to death 
with their daggers. The stain of his blood is shown on 
the oaken floor to this day. 

A little way up the Cannon gate stands the house of 
John Knox, that man of iron resolution and overpowering 
eloquence, who alone dared to face the treacherous and un- 
happy Queen and wring from her eyes the tears of vain 
but exasperated importunity. This is he who prayed in the 
over pouring interest of his soul, "Lord, give me Scotland 
else I die," and whose epitaph was, "Here lies one who never 
feared the face of man.' 

Edinburg has many monuments to its Kings, Princes, and 
great warriars, but the monument to John Knox is not of 
brass or marble, but a more enduring memorial built in the 
deathless admiration and affection of the Scottish people. 
He was a man for the age in which he lived. Much how- 
ever, which he did and said can not be approved in the 
clearer light and under the calmer judgment of this cen- 
tury, and by the unimpassioned standard of a juster ap- 
prehension of God's scheme of human salvation. Still he 
was one of the greatest minds Scotland has produced, and 
his name is enrolled among the immortals. 

A Httle to the Southeast of Edinburgh rises a lofty hill, 
called "Arthur's seat." It presents a curious phenomnon 
in the outlines of its summit. Looking at it from the east- 
ern side in the purple glow of sunset, there is clearly de- 

6 



fined in beautiful but colossal proportions the form of a 
couchant lion, one part of the summit to the left forming 
the hips, the other elevation the neck and head, the un- 
dulation between showing the soft outlines and symmetrical 
bend of the body. The head seems to rest on the outstretch- 
ed paws and slightly turned, looks as if watching the city 
with sleepless vigilance. In one of the most conspicuous 
points of Princes street stands that splendid triumph of 
architectural genius dedicated to the brightest mind in lit- 
erature which Scotland claims. 

A man dear to -every lover of ancient song and story — 
one who has robed the mountains, valleys and streams of 
Scotland with immortal glory and universal renoun — Sir 
Walter Scott. We have spent many a pleasant hour study- 
ing the rugged and homely face of that figue which sits 
in the Centre with the Scottish plait thrown over his shol- 
der and his favorite and famous stag-hound crouching at 
his feet. He has given to Scotland a citizenship of litera- 
ture. Scenery, monuments, houses, cottages, characters of 
ev-ary age and condition from the baron to the fisherman, 
from the lady to the smuggler and fish wife. 

The witchery of the man's genius has cast its spell over 
every Englid speaking nation. In every society that culti- 
vates the graces and refinements of polite literature, no au- 
thor holds a place of higher distinction than Walter Scott. 

His works are classics. With the exception of Shake- 
speare, no author has held the mirror up to nature" and 
pictured it with such graphic nicety of detail and graceful- 
ness of flowing outlines as this "wizard of the north." He 
opens wide the doors of romance and invites us to partake 
with him in the rich and abundant banquet of song and 
story which a thousand years of history have been pre- 
paring, and which he has with prodigious labor and un- 
wearied industry collected with his own hand and brain and 
disposed on the ample board with such graceful profusion. 
The guests he invites us to meet are for the most part real 
men and women — heroes whose deeds of powess eclipse in 
daring and self-sacrifice the classic warriors who wandered 
with Aeneas, and battled around the walls of ancient Troy. 
The martial ardor of Wallace and Rob Roy is kindled in 
our breasts, we catch the glow of a holy and patriatic in- 
spiration as we stand with the heroes of the Scottish cov- 
enant at Drumclog, and see them after psalm and prayer in 
fierce con flict with the Royal forces under Claverhouse, and 
putting them to flight after one of the bloodiest battles, for 
the number engaged I'ecorded in history. 

Then we bewail the woeful fanaticism that turned their 
camp into a school of wrangling polemics, thus forestalling 
their ignommious and irretrievable disaster at Bothwell 
Bride — a defeat which Clavenhouse swore would redeem his 
disgrace in a tenfold measure at Drumclog. Or again we 
are transported into som.e sylvan retreat, and trip lightly 
among the sweet mountain harebells in the west with "The 
Lady of the Lake." We watch the hunt as it dashes through 
the perilous defiles where the rocks in the mountain gorge 

"As if an infant's touch would urge 

Their headlong passages down the verge." 

7 



Or the blood tingles and the eye dilates with tremulous un- 
certainty as to the issue of the combat between Fitz James 
and Roderich Dhu. There is the subtle and agile Saxon 
loot to foot with the larger, but not less heroic gael; and 
wh-an the latter goes down blinded with blood and fury, 
and falls fainting on the sod leaving his antagonist breath- 
less but unscathed, we confess our sympathy is largely with 
the brave but unfortunate highlander, and feel sorry that 
he did not succeed in giving the gay and lordly Fitz a re- 
freshing ditl with his dagger before he fainted and fell. 
Then the scene changes and we are with Marmion where 
"Day, sets on Normans castled steep, and Cheviots moun- 
tains lone," we follow the gloomy spirit through its con- 
flicts, its sorrows and its crimes, and watch the last tragic 
scene of his eventful history. 

The battle is raging over the pain and Marmion is drag- 
ged out of it wounded, but his fiery spirit unsubdued. * The 
priest is near him with his consolations, and better still the 
tender angelic ministries of a wronged but forgiving woman. 

"With fruitless labor bound 

And strove to staunch each flowing wound. 

The Monk with unavailing cares 
Exhausted all the Church's prayers, 

Ever he saw that close and near 
A lady's voice, was in his ear, 

And that the priest he could not hear 
For that she ever sang: 

In the lost battle bourne down by the flying 
When mingles war's rattle with the groans of the dying 
So the notes ring 

The war that for a space did fail 
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale 

And Stanley was the crj^ 
Alight on Marmion s vision spread 

And fixed his glassy eye 
With dying hand above his head 

He shook the fragment of his blade 
And shouted victory ! 

Charge, Chester charge, on Stanley on ! 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

He had the rare facutly of compressing a whole lifes ro- 
mance in a few stanzas, as in "Lochinvar." 

Scott's was not wholly an ideal world, nor his life a ro- 
mance. There was something very real and prosaic in it — 
something also of the tragic. Not a few of the virtues of 
his ideal heroes became prominent in his own life. After 
his fame had been established, and nothing of earthly ambi- 
tion and popular applause remained unsatisfied, there came 
upon him those sweeping financial disasters in which his 
own fortunes and those of Constable his publisher went 
down in wreck and ruin that seemed irretrievable. But with 
a heroism unparalled in the history of literature, he girds 
himself anew to cancel by his pen a debt that was colossal 
in its magnitude. He was fifty-five years of age. He could 
accept no compromise, but goes to work writing untiringly 
until by sheer force and industry he succeeded in paying off 
seventy thousand of the one hundred and seventeen thou- 
sand pounds sterling which was the sum total of his debt, 
but he achieved that tremendous feat at the expense of an 
exhauseted brain and aparalyzed body. He perished in the 

8 



attempt to redeem his honor and good name. But the name 
remains immortal and while Scottish hearts and Scottish 
brains throb and beat, and tears and smiles be evoked as a 
tribute to genius, the memory of Scott shall remain en- 
shrined on the deathless galaxy of fame. 

Another of the great names imperishably with old Cale- 
donia is that of Robert Burns, the darling of the Scottish 
muse, the pride and glory of his native land, and the idol 
of the Scottish people. Poor unfortunate child of genius. 
It is hard to read his brief history without being choked 
with our sobs. Beginning life in the midst of the deepest 
poverty, we are told that the miserable clay hovel in which 
he first saw the light was partly wrecked by a January 
tempest on the very night of his birth — sad forecast of the 
brief, bitter, and stormy career which awaited him. At 
sixteen years of age he tells us his life was "the cheerless 
gloom of a hermit with the unceasing toil of a galley slave." 
After his father's death the little paternal estae had to be 
sold to satisfy creditors, and after three years "tossing and 
whirling in the vortex of litigation" Robert and his brother 
Gilbert succeeded in saving a trifle from the clutches of 
the lawyears by stepping in as creditors for arrears of 
wages. Wlien they got to work again the poet received 
the sum of seven pounds sterling (35 dollars) per annum. 
Troubles multiplied upon him owing chiefly to his own in- 
discretions until he says frankly "even in the hour of social 
mirth, my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal 
under the hands of the executioner." 

But in the midst of his daily durgery and incessant toil 
through summer heats and winter tempests, traveling 
through the snow, toiling at the plow, thrashing his grain 
with the "weary flingin tree," attending market, he never- 
the less found time to chant some of the sweetest lyrics 
ever penned. The outward conditions of his life were dark 
and lowering, but these could not quench those movements 
and ambitions of his inner man which flamed up like the 
lurid flashes of volcanic fires, and threw over the dark 
shadows of his destiny, a glory and a radiant heat which 
no adversity could quench. He works like a slave it is true, 
but he must need pour in as occasion offered the pure and 
holy oil of lofty aspirations gathered from natures ample 
store, and a few well worn books, to feed the deathless 
flame of song which had begun to burn upon the altar of 
his heart. "He carried a book to study at spare moments 
in the field and he wore out thus two copies of "MacKen- 
zie's Man of Feeling." A suggestive hint, for with all his 
misfortunes, and his sins, perhaps, no more tender heart 
ever beat in human breast than that of Robert Burns. None 
more loyal to friendship or more sensitive to generous love 
and sympathy. 

"There is sacrecely any earthly object" he says, "which 
gives me more pleasure than to walk in the sheltered side 
of a wood, or high plantation on a cloudy winter day, and 
hear the stormy wind houling among the trees, and rav- 
ing over the plain. I listened to the birds and frequently 

9 



turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little song 
or frighten th-am to another station." 

Doubless his own misfortunes brought him into closer 
relations of sympathetic feeling even with the poorest and 
meanest things that were suddenly exposed to loss and pain, 
as for instance in the inadvertent passage of his ploughshare 
through a field mouse's nest. Listen to his tender strain. 

"We sleekit Cowerin timerous beastie, 

O what a panels in thy breastie ; 
Thou need nae start awa sae hasty, 

Wi bickerin brattle 
I wad de laith to rin and chase thee 

Wi muirderin pattle." 

He morahzes at once, and does not think it beneath his 
dignity to put himself on the same plane for a time even 
with a mouse. 

"I'm truly sorry man's dominion 

Has broken nature's social union 
An justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, th}^ poor earth born companion 

An fellow moral." 

He sees in the house of "leaves and stubble" so carefully 
collected against the winter storm, and analogy which he is 
slow to improve. 

"But mousie thou art no thy lane 

In provin.s: fore sight may be vain 
The best laid schemes O' mince and men 

Gang aft a gley 
An, lea us naught but grief and pain 

For promised joy." 

Perhaps the key note to Burn's muse may be found in 
the homage which he paid to woman, "He was alwoys in 
love," and he sanfr of love in strains as sweet as any mortal 
minstrel ever made, but he was only a mortal after all : and 
his illicit loves are the darkest blot on his name. But at 
first this passion burned mth a pure and guileless fervor; 
and the sweetest lyric of his muse is the product of an 
early attachment for Mary Campbell whom "death untimely 
frost" snatched from his embrace. On the anniversary of 
her death, he had stayed out all night in the barn, tossing 
and tumbling till the dawn of day; and before the morning 
star was quenched in the rising sun, he went into the house 
and wrote: 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again, thou usher'st in the day. 

My Mary, from my soul was torn. 
O, Mary! dear departed shade! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover, lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans, that rend his breast? 

That sacred hour — can I forget. 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove. 
Where, by the winding A3'r we met, 

To live one day of parting love^ 
Eternity — will not efface 

Those records dear, of transports past; 
Thy image, at our last embrace ! 

Ah ! little thought, I 'twas our last ! 

10 



Ayr, gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods' thich'ning green ; 
The fragant birch, and hawthorn here, 

Twin'd amorous round 1-he raptur'd scene. 
The flowers sprang — wanton to be prest. 

The bird sang love — on every spray. 
Till, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged da3^ 
Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes. 

And fondly broods, with miser care ! 
Time, but the impression deeper makes. 

As streams — their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover, lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his hreats? 

No one has painted with such consummate skill, such ten- 
der grace, and with such depth of coloring "the short and 
simple annals of the "poor as Burns has done. He knew 
by bitter experience the struggles of poverty, the grinding 
toil needed to wring from an inhospitable climate, and un- 
kindly soil the meagre products which barely supported 
life. His "Cottars' Saturday Night" is a picture of peas- 
ant life in Scotland unequalled for purity and beauty 
by any production of genius, and is, we think, the crown- 
ing triumph of his poetic skill. It is a finished produc- 
tion, and his words flash upon our memory and imagina- 
tion those scnes of humble but honest poverty, pious worth 
and modest joys, which relieve the monotonous burden of 
the Scottish laborer's daily toil. The week's work is done, 
and the poor toiler, gathering his few implements together, 
wends his way across the moor to his humble home. His 
gleeful little ones run to meet him. He is saluted by the 
kindly smile of a con tented wife. A bright fire throws a 
genial glow over his poor but tidy home. The elder brains 
drop in with the scanty pittances earned by domestic ser- 
vices among their neighbors. Jenny, the pride of the fami- 
ly, in the first bloom of woman hood, introduces with bash- 
ful modesty, an honest lad worthy of her love and confid- 
ence. The mother is glad that her brain is "respected hke 
the lave." 

"The father chats of horses, plows, and kye." The hum- 
ble, hospitable board is spread, and the evening meal is 
eaten with grateful thanks to God. Then "the big ha' Bi- 
ble" is brought out, and the old song that fired to enthusi- 
asm the children of the Scottish covenant in their wander- 
ings, is sung, and "the saint, the father, and the husband 
prays : 

"That thus they all shall meet in future days, 
There ever bask in uncreated rays 

No more to sigh or shed the tear 
Together hymning their Creator's praise 

In such society yet still more dear 

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere." 

As he tells the touching and familiar story, a glow of hon- 
est pride in his native land kindles in his breast, and he 
places the chaplet of honor upon the brow of pious poverty. 

"From scenes like these old Scotias' grandeur springs 
That make her loved at home, reveered abroad. 

Princes and Lords are but the breath of Kings, 
An honest man's the noblest work of God." 

11 



Genius had few liberal patrons at that time ; and the com- 
pensations rendered to those who worshipped at the shrine 
of the Muses, consisted in great part in patronizing invita- 
tions to big dinners or in treats in the dram shops, where 
poets paid for their etertainment by appearing as prodigies, 
or by bartering the fine gold of their Mdt for draughts from 
the Circean Cup of popular applause and brutal intoxication. 

The convivial usages of the country were almost univer- 
sal; and Burns, with his genial nature and love of society, 
easily fell a prey to the seductions of Bacchus, It was con- 
sidered an insult to hospitality to sit down to dinner in the 
house of a friend and get up from the table sober. 

It was a time when hosts were not solicitous about the 
results of a revel or the comfort of guests, provided that 
there was a plentiful supply of hot water and sugar to re- 
plenish the punch bowl. 

"But what will I do for beds for all these men?" said 
Margaret the Laird of Logan's house keeper. "Keep the 
kettle boihng Marg'et ma Wooman," said the Laird, "and 
they will a find beds for themselves" to be lechtin' fou' or 
"greetin' fow" was regarded as the normal condition of a 
well dined gentleman. 

It was too often alas at such shrines and amid such scenes 
that poor Burns kindled the torch of his inspiration. He 
drew from life when in his masterpiece of "Tam O'shanter" 
he pictured two drunken Cronies seeking respite from care 
in foaming tankards of ale inn: 

Auld Ayr wham ne're a toon surpasses 
For honest men and bonnie lassies." 

At Tarn's elbow sits Soute Johnie 

"His ancient drontly cronie. 

Tamloed him like a verra brither 
They had been fou for week thegether." 

None knew better than Burns how ephemeral are the joys 
of social drinking, and no one has ever produced such a 
chain of similitudes to describe their fleeting sweetness. 

"But pleasures are like poppies spread 

You seize the flower, its bloom is shed, 
Or like the Borealis irace 

That flit 'ere you can point their place 
Or like the rainbow's lovelj^ form 

Evanishing amid the storm 
Or like the snow-flakes in the river, 

A moment white, then melts forever." 

We know of nothing in literature that, in the same space, 
contains so much of the homely, the horrible, and the gro- 
tesque, as wdll be found in this poem. There is a sharp 
Rembrandt like minuteness in the details of this Scotch 
Walpurg is night that produces terror on the reader mingled 
with an irrisistible inclination to shriek with laughter. We 
watch the hard drunken sot 

"Weel mounted on his gray mare meg 
A better never lifted leg." 

Skelping along through the mud and pouring rain, the 
lightnings flashing from "pole to pole." 

"Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet 

Whiles croomin o'er some Auld Scotch sonnet 

12 



While peepm round with prudent care 
Lest bogles catch him unaware." 

Every turn in the road has its tragic associations. Here 
a packman was smothered in the snow. Here hunters found 
a murdered child. Here an old thorn tree near a well where 
a woman hanged herself, etc. Till the adventurers are 
crowned on his approaching th-e old Kirk at Alloway which 
seems blazing to heaven. 

We have stood in it, and really it looks a very innocent 
ruin, nothing but four stone walls, roofles, with a niche at 
one end where he old pulpit once stood. But in that neche 
Bums put "Aul Nick" as a piper to whose music a rabble 
rout of sheol are dancing "fast and furious." Tammie urges 
on his mare until he comes into the sheolish light which 
gilds the ghastly scene, where the bones of murderers, the 
garter that strangled a babe, the knife that lacerated the 
throat of a father 

"And more of horrible and awful 

Which even to name would be unlawful." 

He cannot restrain a feeling of tender pity for one of the 
horrible crew who had been that very night enrolled among 
them. He thinks of the time when she was a little innocent 
child. 

"O little kenned th}- reveren'd granny 
The sack she Coft for her wee Nannie 

Wi'twa pund Scots 'twas a' her riches, 
Should ever grace dance o' witches." 

The climax is reached when Tam, carried away by his 
wonder at the marvelous agility displayed by the leader of 
the infernal gang who was arrayed in a very abbrieviated 
under garment, cries out: 

"Weel dune cutt}- sark 

And in an instant a'was dark," 

This precipitates the catastrophe. 

"As bess bizz out wi, angry fik 

When murderons assail their bike 

As open pussey's mortal foes 

When, pop, she starts before their nose. 

As eager runs the market crowd 

When "catch the thief" resounds aloud. 

So Maggie runs the witche's fetlow, 

With many an eldritch scretch and hollow." 

The devotee of Bacche^s hastens to procure the protection 
of the river Doon as witches dare not cross a running 
stream, and is indebted to his good horse for his safety 
although that is secured at the expense of her tail which she 
leaves in the clutches of the "Carlin." 

Perhaps the songs of Burns have exercised a more uni-. 
versal influence than his poems. They seize the heart and 
hold it as by a spell of enchantment. Who knows not the 
grand nation melody "Scots wha hae" and the familiar lyrics 
"Auld Lang Syne," "John Anderson, My Joe," "Comin' 
through the Rye," etc. In most of his songs there is a strain 
of sadness as indeed there is in most of the finest Scottish 
lyrics other than those written by Burns, 

The brightest gems of the Muse show the sparkle of tears 
or utter the sad sigh which one hears in the moan of the 
waves, or the wail of the midnight wind through a pine 

13 



forest. But the songs of Burns have a charm that enhst 
the sympathy of the whole world. He voices the universal 
experience. He is the high priest of nature. His words 
give tone and character to the passion, the sorrows, the 
pains and the joys of common people. He uses no artifice 
to engage the interest of others. His genius was a well- 
spring fresh and pure from the fountains of the heart, in 
its first unstrained gushings: too soon, alas, to migle with 
the defiling tributaries which a bitter experience of human 
hfe brought to blend with the clearer stream. With his 
great heart burning with a sense of wrong done him by 
those who ought to have sheltered and befriended him, 
mixed also with the bitter reflection that his own indiscre- 
tions and sins had entailed suffering and shame upon him- 
self and upon those who were dearer to him than his own 
life, he sinks into the dark tide of death as the age of 38 
years ; not, we trust, without a hope that the infinite Fath- 
er of mercy had heard the piteous appeal which he recorded 
in these words. 

"O thou great governor of all below 
If I may dare a litted eye to thee, 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be 

To rule their torirent in the hollowed line 
O aid me with thy help, Omnipotence Divine." 

He wrote his own epitaph, and it is an honest and sincere 
confession, but if he had lived under more favorable au- 
spices, and had his environment been such as to assure that 
the flame of his genius would have been nourished from the 
altars of a purer and fitter companionship, he would prob- 
ably have penned a far difl'erent stanza than this which 
fitly closes a dark and stormy career, not unrelieved by 
many bright flashes of hope and gladness. 

"The poor inhabitant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know 
And dearly felt the amorous glow 

And social flame 
But thoughtless follies laid him low 
And stained him name." 

A spirit kindred to that of Robert Burns and one whose 
fame shall never perish, or be dimmed while "Annie Laurie" 
is sung — and where is it not sung? It is that of Robert 
Tannahill, a poor Paisley weaver. We have stood on the 
bridge which spans the canal near the city, and looked with 
sorrowful interest into that pool in the corner, where, driven 
by the demons of poverty and unappreciated talent, the dis- 
racted author ended his brief life. He was a true poet. He 
wrote many songs that the world will not willingly let die. 
•One of the stanzas is peculiarly fine in its delicacy and ten- 
derness : 

"Towering o'er the Newton woods 

Laverocks fan the snaw white clouds 
Siller saughs wi downy buds 

Adorn tlie banks sae biery. 
Sweet the snaw flowers early bell 

Decks Gleniffers dewy dell 
Blooming like thy bonny sell 

My ain my artless deary." 

We would mention another bright name also a native 
of this same town of Paisley. John Wilson — known better 

14 



I 



by his pen name of "Christopher North" the author of 
Noctes Ambrosianae." He ros-e from obscurity to great 
honor and to the chair of moral philosophy in the University 
of Ediuburgh. He was a giant in stature as well as in 
mind, and one of the knightliest of men. No one who ever 
met Wilson striding along the street, his long yellow hair 
flowing over his shoulders, his blue eyes gleaming with mer- 
riment, and glowing with an intelligence that comprehend 
every department of knowledge, couid ever forget him. 

He may be fairly ranked with Scott and Burns in the 
power he exercised in the later part of his life, in storming 
the heart of the Scottish people — becoming at last their idol 
and great literary representative. He was conemporary 
with Thomas Brown whom he succeeded in the chair of 
moral philosophy, and with Sir William Hamilton, who was 
a candidate with him for the chair, but who, up to that time, 
had not given to the public those proofs of that consumate 
ability by which he was afterwards distinguished, and 
which placed him in the foremost rank of the most eminent 
European scholars. 

Wilson once a poet, lecturer, statesman, orator, and novel- 
ist. He was the intimate friend of Coleridge Woodsworth 
and Southey. His poems of the "Isle of Palms" and the 
"City of the Plague" are productions that gave him a worthy- 
place among those bright lights of song shed so brilliant a 
luster over that age of great minds, and whose genuis has 
bequeathed to all future time, the priceless legacy if im- 
mortal harmonies and wealth of thought. He was with alL 
a very muscular Christian ; "for on more than one occasion,, 
the singular spectacle was exhibited of a Scotch professor of 
moral science taking off his coat in a public market place to 
inflict personal chastisment on some rufllan whose obnoxious 
proceedings has done outrage to his nicer sense of the fit- 
ness of things." He was, with Lockheart, one of the or- 
iginal contributors to Blackwood's Magazine, and helped 
more than any other author to give that publication a pop- 
ularity that continues to this day. 

It is said of Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric and Belles Let- 
ters in Ediuburgh University, when he was courting Wil- 
son's daughter that he could not summon up courage to ask 
her father to give his consent to their marriage, although 
he knew how exalted a place he occupied in Wilson's esti- 
mation. 

Here stood the silver tongued Aytown, week after week, 
trying to screw up his courage to ask the question that 
filled his heart, but he could not do it. At length he said: 
"Jessie, will you go and ask your father for me as I can- 
not?" Jessie was soon beside her father and acquainted 
him with how matters stood. "Puir Aytown," said Wilson, 
"I maun gie him his answer in writing." 

So saying he wrote a line without Jessie's knowledge of 
its purport, and pinning it on the back of her dress, sent 
her off to Aytoun whom he well knew was just at that mo- 
ment fully appreciating the significance of the verb "to 
M^ait." 

"What did he say Jessie?" was the impatient interroga- 
tory of the loving professor? Jessie turned her back for 
once upon her lover, and then he read the precious answer : 
"With the Author's compliments." 

15 



This same little town of Paisley is distinguished as the 
birth place of another Wilson who is w^orthy of mention 
here because he became famous as the great "American 
ornithologist" — Alexander Wilson, bom 1766. He began 
his career also as a poet with a witty and felicitous pro- 
duction called: "Watty and Meg." That brings out with 
marvelous fidelity some of the most humurous phases of 
Scottish life and character. He came to America in 1784, 
and after many and thrilling adventures, gave to the world 
his great book on "American Birds" in seven quarto vol- 
umes. George Ord and Charles Lucein Bonaparte completed 
the work by issuing, after Wilson's death, four volumes 
more. It is a record of patient industry that helped to 
put this land forv/ard in the records of fame, and publish 
to the world its marvelous resources. 

We might give brief sketches of such. Dr. Thomas Guth- 
rie, the father of the ragged schools of Scotland. One short 
story will illustrate how earnest was the Doctor in his ef- 
forts to save the children from the dismal and fearful 
depths of vice and crime and infamy. 

One night at a public meeting, a rever-end but very un- 
sympathetic speaker described the ragged school children 
as rescals and vagabonds, the scum of the country. When 
Guthrie's tim.e for speaking came, he arose with pale face 
and quivering lips, seized a sheet of writing paper from the 
table, and holding it up, said: "This was once the scum of 
the country — once foul, wretched rags. In it, now white as 
the snows of heaven, behold an emblem of the work our 
ragged schools have achieved." 

And there was Sir David Brewster who could "scan with 
more than an eagles eye, the mighty creations in the bosom 
of space, and Hugh Miller, that huge geological hammer, in- 
scribed with Hebrew characters. It is a very noticeable 
fact, that those minds that have most largely influenced 
the thought and progress of civilized nations have not in 
the main borrowed their light from an illustrious and 
wealthy ancestry, but have risen from the ranks and been 
found chiefly among the humble sons of poverty and toil. 
The genius of Scotland has been nourished and develop-ed 
amid hard and hostile conditions. It has grown strong and 
rooted itself deeply amid tempests and storms ! not amid the 
soft and voluptuous ease of effeminate luxury. It has given 
to the world the brightest trophies of sciences, philosophy, 
oratory, and song. Its sons have been scattered among all 
people ; but as a rule they have commanded the respect and 
enlisted the efi:ections of all among whom their lot has been 
cast. They have ever felt the force of that fine sentiment 
expressed by the greatestk of their poets. 

Is no in title nor in rank 

Its no in wealth like Lunnom Bonk 
To purchase peace and rest. 

Its no in makin' muckle mare 
Its no in books, it no in lair 

To make us truh' blest. 
If happiness has not its seat and centre in the breast, 

We may be wise, or rich, or great, but never can be blest. 
Nae treasurers nor pleasures 
' Can make us happy lang 

The hearts aye the part aye 

That makes us rich or wrang." 

16 



i'Sl OP CONGRESS 

■i. 



